Arnie Reisman

 

 

 
He shows me the way A boy in a dog suit On a scent Innocent His marble-sized eyes Soft brown nougats Warm Black Crow centers Anchored in opposing tear drops At rest Lying sideways Between the weight of the world And a profound sense of loss He has seen it all And regrets most of it Eyes rimmed as if with kohl It’s a look, a look that cannot be denied You want to give him everything You will give him anything, Anything that will make his tongue come out And swipe his snout Or make him sweep the floor with his tail Call his name Tell him he’s good Ask him if he wants food Ask him if he wants a ride Tell him Mommy’s coming Tell him anyone’s coming For God’s sake just say hello As Quixote upon seeing a windmill, He tilts his head He pumps an eyebrow He’s ready to follow you To the ends of the earth or the driveway, Whichever comes first. “Mommy, why is that doggie so sad?” The little girl pumps her mother’s hand, Her finger wags at Floyd “He can’t help it,” I say in a sing-song way. “His eyes are shaped like sadness. His brows slope down, Like a seesaw always down. He always looks this way, Even when he’s happy And he’s always happy. Isn’t that right, Floyd?” Tilt Pump Lick Wag Giggle The little girl runs over and hugs Floyd, Squeezing his scruff with arms of grace in training. He looks at me as if to say, “Is this the ends of the earth or the driveway?”
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Back in the day, as they say, when a lot was two words and a newspaper lede (which this is right here – the opening paragraph) was a lead, and when a woman was called Jaymie it was spelled Jamie and not Jaime, which should be pronounced Hymay as it is in Spanish, back then when all was right with the world (but not nearly as right as it is today), I read books. Real books with bindings and pages, both hard and soft cover. I still do.
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A few weeks ago, the Gazette’s front page story on the aging of the Vineyard population hit home. From the story we learned that the number of Vineyard residents 60 and older is growing at a faster rate than the rest of the state, and that some estimates show that the number of Islanders between the ages of 60 and 70 will triple by 2020.
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In public seminars this month, the Vineyard Conservation Society, using colorful and frightful maps, showed how we were on our way to becoming the next Atlantis. My wife and I just bought here and now they’re telling me “here” may not be here for long? Here I was enjoying my status as a washashore and now they have the audacity to inform me that life’s odyssey is destined to make me an out-at-sea? Why worry about securing my next appointment with the electrician or the plumber if my future is among flotsam and jetsam?
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Once upon a time on this Island that has managed to achieve peaceful coexistence without traffic lights, we had a little hoedown at the four-way stop on the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road. Cars would come down Barnes Road from the airport. Cars would come up Barnes Road from Featherstone. Cars would come from the high school. Cars would come from Cash & Carry. To cross the four-way intersection, it was a fairly basic doh-see-doh — first come, first served.
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So is Vineyard Haven now the Taos of the East? I knew two years ago there was something very special about what lured us to permanent living in Vineyard Haven, but who knew it would be nationally noted?

Our Chamber of Commerce announced on April 3 that Vineyard Haven was named one of America’s best small town art places for 2013. In fact, it’s in the top 12.

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